UC-NRLF 


It,  7    DM2 


lE.Turnbull, 

BOOKSELLER, 

13,  14  Boziev's  Ct . 

Tottenham  Ct.  Rd., 

LONDON,  W. 


H  ERON-ALLEN. 
JULY;  CDD.GGG.XGI. 


I  .&.' 


GETTYSBURG 


AND 


OTHER   POEMS. 


BY 

ISAAC    R.    PENNYPACKER. 
II 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PORTER    &    COATES. 
1890. 


y~3 


Copyright,  1890,  by  ISAAC  R.  PENNYPACKEK. 


PREFACE. 


IN  response  to  an  invitation  extended  on  behalf 
of  the  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Penn- 
sylvania, and  the  State  Board  of  Commissioners  on 
Gettysburg  Monuments  by  Colonel  John  P.  Nichol- 
son, secretary  of  the  Board,  the  poem  which  leads 
this  collection  was  composed,  and  was  pronounced 
at  the  dedication  of  the  Pennsylvania  monuments 
on  the  battle-field  of  Gettysburg  on  September  12, 
1889. 

Some  of  the  earlier  poems,  "  The  Old  Church  at 
the  Trappe"  and  "  The  Perkiomen,"  found  their 
way  into  Longfellow's  "  Poems  of  Places."  Under 
another  title  the  poem  "  Tacey  Richardson's  Race" 
was  included  in  a  collection  of  poems  about  horse- 
back riding,  entitled  "  In  the  Saddle,"  and  pub- 
lished by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  in  1882.  Its 
present  title  was  adopted  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr. 
Longfellow. 

These  poems,  with  a  few  others  not  hitherto  pub- 
lished, are  now  for  the  first  time  brought  together. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

GETTYSBURG 9 

TACEY  RICHARDSON'S  RACE 19 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  RED  ROSE 29 

THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  THE  TRAPPE 35 

THE  PERKIOMEN 41 

LEONARD  KEYSEII 45 

HA!  HA!  AND  HA!  HA!  INDEED! 51 

IN  WINTER  QUARTERS 57 

THE  BURYINQ-GROUND      01 

A  NOVEMBER  NOCTURNE   , 65 

THE  FALLING  OF  THE  DEW 69 

BECALMED     73 

GOOD  TIMES       77 

AFTER  THE  PROPOSAL 81 

THE  PINEY 85 

NOTES  .                                                                                        .  89 


GETTYSBURG. 


GETTYSBURG. 

'TWAS  on  the  time  when  Lee, 
Below  Potomac's  swollen  ford, 
Had  beaten  down  the  broken  sword 
Of  his  baffled  enemy. 

His  long  line  lengthened  faster 

Than  the  days  of  June, 

O'er  valleys  varied,  mountains  vaster, 

By  forced  marches  night  and  noon. 

Any  morn  might  bring  him  down, 

Captor  of  the  proudest  town  ; 

Any  one  of  cities  three 

At  noon  or  night  might  prostrate  be. 

Then  to  Meade  was  the  sword  of  the  !N"orth 

Held  hiltward  for  proof  of  its  worth  ; 

O'er  the  vastness  of  masses  of  men 

All  the  glorious  banners  of  war, 

All  the  battle-flags  floated  again  ; 

All  the  bugles  blew  blithely  once  more, 

Sounding  the  stately  advance  ; 

Village  door-ways  framed  faces  of  awe 

At  the  trains  of  artillery  pressed 

On  earth's  reverberent  breast, 

And  the  sun  sought  the  zenith,  and  saw 

All  the  splendors  of  war  at  a  glance. 

9 


10  Gettysburg. 

How  soon  the  first  fierce  rain  of  death, 
In  big  drops  dancing  on  the  trees, 
Withers  the  foliage  !     At  a  breath, 
Hot  as  the  blasts  that  dried  old  seas, 
The  clover  falls  like  drops  of  blood 
From  mortal  hurts,  and  stains  the  sod ; 
The  wheat  is  clipped,  but  the  ripe  grain 
Here  long  ungarnered  shall  remain ; 
And  many  who  at  the  drum's  long  roll 
Sprang  to  the  charge  and  swelled  the  cheer, 
And  set  their  flags  high  on  the  knoll, 
Ne'er  knew  how  went  the  fight  fought  here ; 
For  them  a  knell  tumultuous  shells 
Shook  from  the  consecrated  bells, 
As  here  they  formed  that  silent  rank, 
Whose  glorious  star  at  twilight  sank. 

And  night,  which  lulls  all  discords — night, 
Which  stills  the  folds  and  vocal  wood, 
And,  with  the  touch  of  finger  light, 
Quiets  the  pink-lipped  brook's  wild  mood, 
Which  sends  the  wind  to  seek  the  latch, 
And  seals  young  eyes  while  mothers  watch — 
Night  stays  the  battle,  but  with  day 
Their  lives,  themselves,  foes  hurl  away. 
Where  thousands  fell,  but  did  not  yield, 
Shall  be  to-morrow's  battle-field. 
E'er  dying  died  or  dead  were  cold, 
JN'ew  hosts  pressed  on  the  lines  to  hold, 
And  held  them — hold  them  now  in  sleep, 
While  stars  and  sentinels  go  round, 


Gettysburg,  1 1 

And  war-worn  chargers  shrink  like  sheep 
^Beside  their  riders  on  the  ground. 
All  through  the  night — all  through  the  North 
Speed  doubtful  tidings  back  and  forth ; 
Through  North  and  South,  from  dusk  till  day, 
A  sundered  people  diverse  pray. 

So  gradual  sink  the  deliberate  stars, 

The  sun  doth  run  the  laggards  down, 

At  sleep's  still  meadows  bursts  the  bars, 

And  floods  with  light  the  steepled  town. 

Blow,  bugles  of  the  cavalry,  blow  ! 

Forward  the  infantry,  row  on  row ! 

While  every  battery  leaps  with  life, 

And  swells  with  ton^ueless  throats  the  strife  ! 


Where  grappled  foes,  one  flushed  with  joy 

From  triumphs  fresh,  and  come  to  destroy, 

And  one  by  blows  but  tempered  fit 

To  keep  the  torch  of  freedom  lit, 

The  battle-dust  from  heroes'  feet, 

Brief  hiding  rally  and  last  retreat, 

By  the  free  sunlight  touched  became 

A  golden  pillar  of  lambent  flame. 

Glorified  was  this  field,  its  white 

Faces  of  victors  and  of  slain, 

And  these  and  Round-Top's  luminous  height 

That  glory  flashed  afar  again, 

Around  the  world,  for  all  to  see 

One  nation  and  one  wholly  free, 


1 2  Gettysburg. 

And  branded  deep  with  flaming  sword 

Its  primal  compact's  binding  word. 

'Breath  Freedom's  dome  that  light  divine, 

Borne  here  from  dark  defiles  of  Time, 

From  here  upblazed,  a  beacon  sign 

To  all  the  oppressed  of  every  clime, 

And  dulled  eyes  glistened:  hope  upsprung 

Where'er  ills  old  when  man  was  young, 

Against  awaking  thought  were  set, 

"Where  power  its  tribute  wrongly  wrung, 

Or  moved  on  pathways  rank  even  yet 

With  martyrs'  blood,  where'er  a  tongue 

Hath  words  to  show,  as  serf,  slave,  thrall, 

How  great  man's  power  !  how  deep  man's  fall  ! 


Long  will  be  felt,  though  hurled  in  vain, 
The  shock  that  shook  the  Northern  gate  ; 
Long  heard  the  shots  that  dashed  amain, 
But  flattened  on  the  rock  of  fate, 
Where  Lee  still  strove,  but  failed  to  break 
The  barrier  down,  or  fissure  make, 
And  never  grasped  by  force  the  prize 
Deferred  by  years  of  compromise ; 
Long  will  men  keep  the  memory  bright 
Of  deeds  done  here  ;  how  flashed  the  blade 
Of  Hancock  from  South  Mountain's  shade 
To  the  sheer  heights  of  unfading  light ! 
That  martial  morn  o'er  yonder  ridge 
Reynolds  last  rode  face  towards  the  foe, 
And  onward  rides  through  history  so  ; 


Gettysburg.  13 

For  Meade,  even  as  for  Joshua,  suns 
The  unmindful  gulf  of  Time  abridge, 
While  still  its  depths  fling  back  his  guns' 
Victorious  echoes.     The  same  wise  power 
Which  starts  the  currents  from  ocean's  heart, 
And  hurls  the  tides  at  their  due  hour, 
Or  holds  them  with  a  force  unspent, 
Made  him  like  master,  in  each  part, 
O'er  all  his  mighty  instrument. 
Chief  leaders  of  the  battle  great ! 
Three  sons  of  one  proud  mother  State  ! 
These  epoch  stones  she  sets  stand  fast, 
As  on  her  field  her  regiments  stood; 
Their  volleys  rang  the  first  and  last; 
They  kept  with  Webb  the  target-wood, 
And  there  for  all  turned  on  its  track 
The  wild  gulf  stream  of  treason  back, 
Or  on  the  stubborn  hill-sides  trod 
Out  harvests  sown  not  on  the  clod. 
Hearts  shall  beat  high  in  days  grown  tame 
At  thoughts  of  them  and  their  proud  fame, 
And  watching  Pickett's  gallant  band 
Melt  like  lost  snow-flakes  in  the  deep, 
Pity  shall  grow  throughout  the  land, 
And  near  apace  with  joy  shall  keep.  • 


Baffled,  beaten,  back  to  the  ford, 
His  own  at  last  the  broken  sword, 
Rode  the  invader.     On  his  breast 
His  head  with  sorrow  low  was  pressed ; 


14  Gettysburg. 

On  his  horse's  tangled  mane 
Loosely  hung  the  bridle  rein. 
At  Gettysburg  his  valiant  host 
The  last  hope  of  their  cause  had  lost ; 
In  vain  their  daring  and  endeavor, 
It  was  buried  there  forever ; 
Right  well  he  knew  the  way  he  fled 
Straight  to  the  last  surrender  led. 

So  ended  Lee's  anabasis, 

And  all  he  hoped  had  come  to  this : — 

As  well  for  master  as  the  driven 

That  not  to  him  was  victory  given ; 

So  Eight  emboldened  and  made  known 

Hurled  the  whole  troop  of  Error  down, 

And  here  held  fast  an  heritage. 

So  on  that  course  may  all  hold  fast 

Till  no  man  takes  an  hundred's  wasre, 

O      ' 

And  each  one  has  his  own  at  last, 
Till  the  last  caravan  of  the  bound, 
Driven  towards  some  Bornuese  market-place, 
Happily  shall  feel  their  bonds  unwound, 
And  steps  of  woe  in  joy  retrace. 

In  the  cities  of  the  North 

The  brazen  cannon  belched  forth 

For  the  defeat  of  Lee. 

When  the  smoke  from  this  field 

Unfolded,  lo  !  fixed  on  the  shield, 

Each  wandering  star  was  revealed, 

And  the  steeple  bells  pealed 


Gettysburg.  1 5 

Inland  to  the  further  sea. 

In  the  villages  flags  waved 

For  Meade's  victory, — 

A  thousand,  thousand  flags  waved 

For  the  souls  to  be  free, 

For  the  Union  saved, 

For  the  Union  still  to  be. 


TACEY  RICHARDSON'S  RACE. 


17 


TACEY    RICHARDSON'S   RACE. 

THE  tall  Green  Tree  its  shadow  cast 
Upon  Howe's  army,  that  southward  passed 
From  Gordon's  Ford  to  the  Quaker  town, 
Intending  in  quarters  to  settle  down 
Till  snows  were  gone,  and  spring  again 
Should  easier  make  a  new  campaign. 

Beyond  the  fences,  that  lined  the  way, 

The  fields  of  Captain  Richardson  lay ; 

His  woodland  and  meadows  reached  far  and  wide, 

From  the  hills  behind  to  the  Schuylkill's  side ; 

Across  the  stream,  in  the  mountain  gorge, 

He  could  see  the  smoke  of  the  Valley  Forge. 

The  captain  had  fought  in  the  frontier  war ; 
When  the  fight  was  done,  bearing  seam  and  scar, 
He  marched  back  home  to  tread  once  more 
The  same  tame  round  he  had  trod  before, 
And  turned  his  thoughts,  with  sighs  of  regret, 
To  ploughshares,  wishing  them  sword-blades  yet. 

He  put  the  meadow  in  corn  that  year, 
And  swore  till  his  blacks  were  white  with  fear; 
He  ploughed,  and  planted,  and  married  a  wife, 
But  life  grew  weary  with  inward  strife ; 

19 


20  Tacey  Richardson's  Race. 

His  blood  was  hot,  and  his  throbbing  brain 
Beat  with  the  surf  of  some  far  main. 


Should  he  sack  a  town,  or  rob  the  mail, 
Or  on  the  wide  seas  a  pirate  sail  ? 
He  pondered  it  over,  concluding  instead 
To  buy  three  steeds,  in  Arabia  bred ; 
On  Sopus,  Fearnaught,  or  Scipio, 
He  felt  his  blood  more  evenly  flow. 

To  his  daughter  Tacey  the  coming  days 

Brought  health  and  beauty  and  graceful  ways; 

He  taught  her  to  ride  his  fleetest  steed 

At  a  five-barred  fence,  or  a  ditch  at  need, 

And  the  captain's  horses,  his  hounds,  and  his  chik 

Were  famous  from  sea  to  forests  wild. 

In  the  fall  they  chased  the  fox  to  his  den, 
Or  in  spring  they  followed  the  fishermen 
To  the  shore  of  Richardson's  Island  near, 
Where  the  shad  were  entangled  with  seine  and  weir 
In  winter  away,  when  frosts  were  white, 
They  came  safe  home  at  candle-light. 

By  the  great  wide  hearth,  where  the  firelight  fell, 
In  long  winter  evenings,  the  captain  would  tell 
Some  marvellous  tale  from  his  well-stocked  store, 
And  he  fought  his  Indian  battles  o'er, 
With  andirons  and  tongs  to  show  the  stockade, 
And  just  where  the  first  assault  was  made ; 


Tacey  Richardson's  Race.  21 

Or  he  read  from  the  Bible,  that  stood  on  the  shelf, 
Some  soul-stirring  story  that  pleased  himself, 
And  enforced  his  saying,  that  women  should  be 
Prepared,  whatsoever  the  emergency; 
Till  the  fire  burned  low,  the  room  grew  cold, 
And  the  Rittenhouse  clock  the  tenth  hour  told. 

So  the  seasons  changed,  and  once  each  week, 

Through  spring  and  summer  and  winter  bleak, 

Beyond  the  cross-roads  a  horn  blew  clear, 

The  horn  of  the  mounted  postman  near, 

And  he  hurled  from  his  seat,  as  he  passed  the  door, 

The  Pennsylvania  Gazette  that  he  bore. 

Et  told  of  estrays  and  runaway  slaves, 
Of  vendues,  treaties  with  Indian  braves ; 
That  the  city  folk  resolutions  had  passed 
Of  non-importation ;  it  brought  the  last 
Tidings  from  London,  the  first  news  of  war, 
And  later — Howe's  army  marched  by  the  door. 

Master  and  man  from  home  were  gone, 
And  Fearnaught  held  the  stables  alone, 
And  Mistress  Tacey  her  spirit  showed,     . 
The  morning  the  British  came  down  the  road : 
She  hid  the  silver,  and  drove  the  cows 
To  the  island,  behind  the  willow-boughs. 

Was  time  too  short  ?     Or  did  she  forget 
That  Fearnaught  stood  in  the  stables  yet? 


22  Tacey  Richardson's  Race. 

Across  the  fields,  to  the  gate,  she  ran, 
And  followed  the  path  'neath  the  grape-arbor's  span ; 
On  the  door-step  she  paused,  and  turned,  to  see 
The  head  of  the  line  beneath  the  Green  Tree. 

The  last  straggler  passed;  the  night  came  on, 
And   then  'twas  discovered  that  Fearnau«;ht  was 

o 

gone; 

Some  time,  somehow,  from  his  stall  he  was  led, 
Where  an  old  gray  horse  was  left  in  his  stead, 
And  Tacey  must  prove  to  her  father  that  she 
Had  been  prepared  for  the  emergency. 

For  the  words  he  scattered  on  kind  soil  fell, 
And  Tacey  had  learned  his  maxims  well 
In  the  stories  he  read.     She  remembered  the  art 
That  concealed  the  fear  in  Esther's  heart ; 
How  the  words  of  the  woman,  Abigail, 
Appeased  the  king's  wrath ;  the  deed  of  Jael ; 

How  Judith  went  from  the  city's  gate, 

Across  the  plain,  as  the  day  grew  late, 

To  the  tent  of  the  great  Assyrian, 

The  leader  exalted  with  horse  and  man, 

And  brought  back  his  head ;  said  Tacey,  "  Of  course, 

A  more  difficult  feat  than  to  bring  back  a  horse." 

In  the  English  camp  the  reveille  drum 
Told  the  sleeping  troops  that  the  dawn  had  come, 
And  the  shadows  abroad,  that  with  night  were  blent, 
At  the  drum's  tap  startled,  crept  under  each  tent, 


Tacey  Richardson's  Race.  23 

As  Tacey  ran  from  the  sheltering  wood, 

Across  the  wet  grass  where  the  horse-pound  stood. 

Hark !  was  it  the  twitter  of  frightened  bird, 
Or  was  it  the  challenge  of  sentry  she  heard  ? 
She  entered  unseen,  but  her  footsteps  she  stayed 
When  the  old  gray  horse,  in  the  wood  still,  neighed ; 
Half  hid  in  the  mist  a  shape  loomed  tall, 
A  steed  that  answered  her  well-known  call. 

With  freedom  beyond  for  the  recompense, 
She  sprang  to  his  back,  and  leaped  the  fence. 
Too  late  the  alarm  ;  but  Tacey  heard, 
As  she  sped  away,  how  the  camp  was  stirred, — 
The  stamping  of  horses,  the  shouts  of  men, 
And  the  bugle's  impatient  call  again. 

Loudly  and  fast  on  the  Ridge  Road  beat 

The  regular  fall  of  Fearnaught's  feet ; 

On  his  broad  bare  back  his  rider's  seat 

Was  as  firm  as  the  tread  of  the  steed  so  fleet ; 

Small  need  of  saddle,  or  bridal-rein, 

He  answered  as  well  her  touch  on  his  mane. 


On  down  the  hill,  by  the  river  shore, 

Faster  and  faster  she  rode  than  before ; 

Her  bonnet  fell  back,  her  head  was  bare, 

And  the  river  breeze,  that  freed  her  hair, 

Dispersed  the  fog,  and  she  heard  the  shout 

Of  the  troopers  behind  when  the  sun  came  out. 


24  Tacey  Richardson's  Race. 

The  wheel  at  Van  Deering's  had  dripped  nearly  dry, 
In  Sabbath-like  stillness  the  morning  passed  by; 
Then  the  clatter  of  hoofs  came  down  the  hill, 
And  the  white  old  miller  ran  out  from  the  mill, 
But  he  only  saw,  through  the  dust  of  the  road, 
The  last  red-coat  that  faintly  showed. 

To  Tacey,  the  sky,  and  the  trees,  and  the  wind 
Seemed  all  to  rush  towards  her,  and  follow  behind ; 
Her  lips  were  set  firm,  and  pale  was  her  cheek, 
As  she  plunged  down  the  hill  and  through  the  creek ; 
The  tortoise-shell  comb  that  she  lost  that  day 
The  Wissahickon  carried  away. 

On  the  other  side,  up  the  stony  hill, 
The  feet  of  Fearnaught  went  faster  still ; 
But  somewhat  backward  the  troopers  fell, 
For  the  hill  and  the  pace  began  to  tell 
On  their  horses,  worn  with  a  long  campaign 
O'er  rugged  mountains  and  weary  plain. 

The  road  was  deserted,  for,  when  men  fought, 
A  secret  path  the  traveller  sought ; 
Two  scared  idlers  in  Levering's  Inn 
Fled  to  the  woods  at  the  coming  din ; 
The  watch- dog  ran  to  bark  his  delight, 
But  pursued  and  pursuers  were  out  of  sight. 

Surely  the  distance  between  them  increased, 

And  the  shouts  of  the  troopers  had  long  since  ceased; 


Tacey  Richardson's  Race.  25 

One  after  another  pulled  his  rein, 

And  rode,  with  great  oaths,  to  the  camp  again ; 

Oft  a  look  backward  Tacey  sent 

To  the  fading  red  of  the  regiment. 

She  heard  the  foremost  horseman  call ; 

She  saw  the  horse  stumble,  the  rider  fall ; 

She  patted  her  steed,  and  checked  his  pace, 

And  leisurely  rode  the  rest  of  the  race ; 

When  the  Seven-Stars'  sign  on  the  horizon  showed, 

Behind,  not  a  trooper  was  on  the  road. 

In  vain  had  they  shouted  who  followed  in  chase, 
In  vain  their  wild  ride.     So  ended  the  race. 
Though  fifty  strong  voices  may  clamor  and  call, 
If  she  hear  not  the  strongest,  she  hears  not  them  all ; 
Though  fifty  fleet  horses  go  galloping  fast, 
One  swifter  than  all  shall  be  farthest  at  last. 

Said  the  well-pleased  captain,  when  he  came  home  : 
"  The  steed  shall  be  thine  and  a  new  silver  comb ; 
'Twas  a  daring  deed  and  bravely  done." 
As  proud  of  the  praise  as  the  promise  won, 
The  maiden  stole  from  the  house  to  feed, 
With  a  generous  hand,  her  gallant  steed. 

Unavailing  the  storms  of  the  century  beat 
With  the  roar  of  thunder,  or  winter's  sleet; 
The  mansion  still  stands,  and  is  heard,  as  of  yore, 
The  wind  in  the  trees  on  the  island's  shore : 


26  Tacey  Richardson's  Race. 

But  the  restless  river  its  shore  line  wears, 
And  no  longer  the  island  its  old  name  bears. 

The  Green  Tree  spreads  its  shelter  of  shade 

O'er  children  at  play  where  their  forefathers  pla}^ed, 

And  in  Providence  still  abide  her  race, 

Brave  youths  with  her  courage,  fair  maids  with  her 

grace ; 

Undaunted  they  stand  when  fainter  hearts  flee, 
Prepared,  whatsoever  the  emergency. 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  RED  ROSE. 


•n 


AT    THE   SIGN    OF   THE   RED    ROSE. 

WITHIN  the  door-way  of  the  Inn 
The  host  sat  smoking  at  day's  close ; 

He  could  not  see  the  smoke  wreaths  thin, 
Nor  on  the  sign  the  painted  rose, 

And  a  white  line  but  faintly  showed 

Where  through  the  darkness  ran  the  road  ; 

O'er  which,  in  state,  some  hours  before, 
A  coach,  drawn  by  four  horses  gray, 

No  other  than  the  Governor, 

Refreshed,  had  borne  upon  his  way. 

Well  might  the  host  recount  his  gain 

From  meat  and  drink  for  all  that  train, 

And  let  his  fancies  run  like  vines 
Upon  the  framework  of  content, 

All  in  and  out,  o'er  old  designs, 

That  'mongst  new  plans  were  permanent. 

Well  satisfied  he  rose  at  last, 

And  made  each  door  arid  window  fast, 

Threw  back  the  cover  from  the  well, 
Drew  the  dark  dripping  bucket  up, 

And  stooped  to  dip  the  cocoa-shell ; — 
Surprise  dashed  down  the  undrained  cup; 

29 


30  At  the  Sign  of  the  Red  Rose. 

It  quenched,  with  splash  of  water  cool, 
Each  mirrored  star  within  the  pool. 

In  sharp,  quick  volleys,  close  at  hand, 
O'er  the  hard  highway  horse-hoofs  beat; 

Up  hill  and  down,  on  stone  and  sand, 

Now  rang,  now  crunched,  the  unshodden  feet, 

And  somewhere  in  the  pebbled  stream 

Ceased,  as  the  passing  of  a  dream. 

If  there  one  rider  raised  his  blade 

As  he  o'ertook  a  fleeing  foe, 
It  fell  into  a  sheath  of  shade 

That  hid  the  horsemen,  blade  and  blow; 
Nor  have  the  mornings  since  revealed 
A  trace  of  what  the  night  concealed. 

Meanwhile,  the  host  of  the  Red  Rose, 
Hearing  the  horse-hoofs  still  draw  near, 

Waited,  and  wondered  long  that  those 
Who  rode  so  fast  should  not  appear, 

And  watched  the  woods  as  men,  in  vain, 

Watch  thunder-clouds  that  bring  no  rain. 

The  sounds  had  ceased ;  that  which  appalled 
Him  passed ;  as  still  grew  wood  and  plain, 

As  if  the  clear  star  voice  had  called, 
That  nature  waits  to  hear  again ; 

The  hand  he  held  behind  his  ear 

Still  trembled  with  the  pulse  of  fear. 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Red  Rose.  31 

Only  a  flutter  of  leaves  he  hears — 
The  flutter  of  leaves  along  a  wind 

That  moves  the  mist  to  sudden  tears ; 
It  sweeps  the  crannies  of  the  mind, 

And  drives  him  from  the  moon's  slant  beams, 

To  see  the  scene  again  in  dreams. 

Year  after  year,  when  the  round  moon 
Of  autumn  shone  through  the  white  mist, 

Red  as  the  fiery  sun  at  noon, 

A  phantom  horse  came  from  the  east ; 

Obeying  a  phantom  rider's  hand, 

It  dashed  across  the  meadow-land  ; 

A  clatter  on  the  stony  road, — 

A  splash  of  water  in  the  run, — 
But  not  an  imprint  daylight  showed 

Where  sound  had  stopped,  or  where  begun ; 
It  came — the  flavored  punch  grew  cold, 
The  favorite  tale  was  stopped  half  told. 

No  child  could  sleep  when  sire  had  said 
"  The  spectre  horseman  rides  to-night;" 

Though  once  at  dusk  the  skies  were  red 
With  many  a  burning  homestead's  light, 

The  sentry  trembled  more  in  fear   - 

Of  the  dead  than  living  Indians  near. 

Change  and  decay  sure  triumphs  boast; 

Of  the  old  inn  remains  no  sign 
Save  its  deep  cellar,  where  the  host 

Once  tapped  his  casks  of  rarest  wine  ; 


32  At  the  Sign  of  the  Red  Rose. 

Its  ghost  that  will  not  vanish,  though 
The  tribe  were  banished  Ion  &  a 


Gone,  with  the  old  time  hostelry, 

Are  host  and  guests,  and  stream  now  dry, 

Which,  'ere  they  felled  the  last  great  tree 
Along  its  banks,  had  all  run  by; 

This  last  faint  scent  of  the  Red  Rose, 

As  one  reluctant,  lingers  —  goes. 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  THE  TRAPPE. 


33 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  THE  TRAPPE. 

Quails  et  quantus  fuerit  non  ignorabunt  sine  lapide 
futura  Scecula. 

IN  the  heat  of  a  day  in  September 
We  came  to  the  old  Church  door ; 

We  bared  our  heads,  I  remember, 

On  the  step  that  the  moss  covered  o'er : 

There  the  vines  climbed  over  and  under, 

And  we  trod,  with  a  reverent  wonder, 

Through  the  dust  of  the  years  on  the  floor. 

From  the  dampness  and  darkness  and  stillness 

No  resonant  chantings  outrolled ; 
And  the  air,  with  its  vaporous  dullness, 

Covered  altar  and  column  with  mould ; 
For  the  pulpit  had  lost  its  old  glory, 
And  its  greatness  become  but  a  story, — 

A  legend  still  lovingly  told. 

O'er  the  graves,  'neath  the  long,  waving  grasses, 
In  summer  the  winds  lightly  blow, 

And  the  phantoms  come  forth  from  the  masses 
Of  deep-tangled  ivy  that  grow ; 

Through  the  aisles  at  midnight  they  wander, — 

At  noon  of  the  loft  they  are  fonder, — 
Unhindered  they  come  and  they  go. 

35 


36  The  Old  Church  at  the  Trappe. 

And  it  seemed  that  a  breath  of  a  spirit, 

Like  a  zephyr  at  cool  of  the  day, 
Passed  o'er  us,  and  then  we  could  hear  it 

In  the  loft  through  the  organ-pipes  play ; 
All  the  aisles  and  the  chancel  seemed  haunted, 
And  weird  anthems  by  voices  were  chanted 

Where  dismantled  the  organ's  pipes  lay. 

Came  the  warrior  who,  robed  as  a  colonel, 
Led  his  men  to  the  fight  from  the  prayer ; 

And  the  pastor  who  tells  in  his  journal 

What  he  saw  in  the  sunlight's  bright  glare,— 

How  a  band  of  wild  troopers  danced  under, 

While  the  organ  was  peeling  its  thunder 
In  gay  tunes  on  the  sanctified  air. 

And  Gottlieb,  colonial  musician, 
Once  more  had  come  over  the  seas, 

And  sweet  to  the  slave  and  patrician 
Were  the  sounds  of  his  low  melodies ; 

Once  again  came  the  tears,  the  petition, 

Soul-longings  and  heart-felt  contrition, 
At  his  mystical  touch  on  the  keys. 

There  joined  in  the  prayers  of  the  yeomen 
For  the  rulers  and  high  in  command, 

The  statesman,  who  prayed  that  the  foeman 
Might  perish  by  sea  and  by  land ; 

And  flowers  from  herbariums  elysian 

Long  pressed,  yet  still  sweet,  in  the  vision 
Were  strewn  by  a  spiritual  hand. 


The  Old  Church  at  the  Trappe.  37 

There  were  saints, — there  were  souls  heavy-laden 
With  the  burden  of  sins  unconfessed ; 

In  the  shadow  there  lingered  a  maiden, 
With  a  babe  to  her  bosom  close  pressed, 

And  the  peace  that  exceeds  understanding, 

Borne  on  odors  of  blossoms  expanding, 
Forever  abode  in  her  breast. 

Then  hushed  were  the  prayers  and  the  chorus, 
As  we  gazed  through  the  gloom  o'er  the  pews ; 

And  the  phantoms  had  gone  from  before  us 
By  invisible,  dark  avenues; 

And  slowly  we  passed  through  the  portals, 

In  awe  from  the  haunts  of  immortals, 

Who  had  vanished  like  summer's  light  dews. 

0  church,  that  of  old  proudly  nourished ! 

Upon  thee  decay  gently  falls, 
And  the  founders  by  whom  thou  wert  nourished 

Lie  low  in  the  shade  of  thy  walls ; 
No  stone  need  those  pioneer  sages 
To  tell  their  good  works  to  the  ages ; 

Thy  ruin  their  greatness  recalls. 


THE  PERKIOMEN. 


39 


THE   PERKIOMEN. 

HERE,  in  times  long  gone,  October  bright 
In  sombre  forests  set  her  glory  light ; 
Where  village  street  leads  o'er  the  bridge's  span, 
Among  brown  hills  and  peaceful  meadows  ran 
The  Perkiomen,  singing  all  the  day. 

For  well-tilled  fields  gave  back  a  hundred-fold, 
And  well-filled  barns  could  scarce  their  treasure 

hold; 

The  orchards,  bending  'neath  the  weight  they  bore, 
Cast  down  their  golden  fruit  upon  the  shore 
Of  Perkiomen,  singing  all  the  day. 

There  came  a  change :  the  leaves  upon  the  wood 
Burned  brighter  with  a  color  as  of  blood ; 
The  waving  northern  lights,  the  camp-fires'  glow 
Seemed  from  the  heights  a  tinge  of  blood  to  throw 
On  Perkiomen  at  the  close  of  day. 

At  morn  a  host  marched  proudly  to  the  fight ; 
And  some  returned  their  camp-fires  to  relight, 
And  some  to  hear  awhile  the  waters  flow; 
Then  ears  grew  dull  in  coming  death,  and  low 
The  Perkiomen  sang  on  that  dread  day. 

41 


42  The  Perkiomen. 

And  prayers  in  many  distant  homes  were  said 
By  hearts  that  ne'er  again  were  comforted ; 
While  here  the  soldier  saw  in  dreams  again 
Home  scenes,  made  vivid  by  the  sad  refrain 
Of  Perkiomen,  singing  all  the  day. 

Yet  'mid  the  gloom  and  doubt  the  living  learned 
How  still  defeat  to  victory  might  be  turned ; 
Until  the  cannon  thundered  from  the  hill 
A  conquest's  tale,  and  glad  below  the  mill 
The  Perkiomen  sang  on  that  great  day. 

But  nature  soon  forgets :  that  camp  is  lost ; 
She  hides  the  graves  of  all  that  armed  host ; 
On  the  same  site  now  stands  another  mill ; 
Another  miller  leans  on  the  white  sill 
To  hear  the  Perkiomen  sing  to-day. 

Let  not  our  hearts  forget.     Lo !  time  makes  plain 
How  from  the  sacrifice  has  grown  our  gain. 
Here  orchards  bloom;  each  year  its  harvest  brings, 
And  clearer  still  of  peace  and  plenty  sings 
The  Perkiomen  all  the  autumn  day. 


LEONARD  KEYSER. 


LEONARD   KEYSER. 

(Sung  at  a  Centennial  Anniversary,  October  1^,  1877.) 

WHEN  Leonard  Xeyser  heard  the  cries 

Of  grief  for  martyred  dead, 
And  saw  the  place  of  sacrifice. 

Whereto  his  pathway  led, 
He  pleaded  not,  with  useless  prayer, 

To  scorning  bigots  near, 
But  plucked  a  flower  that  bloomed  so  fair 

It  made  the  waste  more  drear. 

One  flower  that  had  escaped  the  breath 

That  swept  the  withered  land  : 
God's  symbol  of  a  life  from  death, 

He  held  it  in  his  hand. 
"  If  ye  have  power,"  he  spake,  "this  hour, 

With  all  the  fires  ye  light 
To  burn  my  body,  or  this  flower, 

Then  have  ye  done  aright." 

His  eyes  upraised  saw  not  the  glare 

Of  torch  on  hooting  crowd, 
But  far  above  the  fagots'  flare 

A  rift  within  the  cloud, — 

45 


46  Leonard  Keyser. 

A  promise  sent  from  God  on  high 
That  Hate  should  surely  fail : 

No  wrath  could  then  His  power  defy, 
Nor  in  the  end  prevail. 

We  seek  not,  Lord,  to  know  the  spell 

That  wrought  Thy  will  divine ; 
We  know  Thou  doest  all  things  well ; 

The  miracle  was  Thine 
To  cause  the  bonds  to  fall, — to  take 

From  death  all  trace  of  pain 
And  mark  of  fire,  and  then  to  make 

The  flower  to  bloom  again. 

The  fagots'  blaze,  like  noontide  hours, 

Gave  vigor  to  Truth's  germ, 
And  tears  but  seemed  the  summer  showers 

To  make  its  root  more  firm. 
Upon  the  Inn's  dark  ebbing  tide 

The  Martyr's  corse  was  thrown, 
A  witness  of  his  creed  he  died, 

A  faith  his  children  own. 

Upon  those  waves  the  good  ships  bore 

Truth's  fruitage  to  the  sea, 
Whose  surges  broke  upon  this  shore 

Of  Peace  and  Liberty. 
And  thou,  O  God !  whose  hollowed  hand 

Upheld  the  troubled  sea 
Whereon  our  sires  sailed  to  this  land, 

We  lift  our  prayers  to  Thee — 


Leonard  Keyser.  47 

To  ask  that  for  these  kinsmen  here 

Thou  wilt  extend  Thy  care, 
As  when  Thou  mad'st  the  rift  appear 

Above  the  fagots'  flare ; 
We  thank  Thee  for  Thy  blessings  given 

To  all  this  gathered  throng, 
And  sing  Thy  praises  unto  Heaven 

In  one  triumphant  song. 


HA!  HA!  AND  HA!  HA!  INDEED! 


49 


HA!    HA!   AND    HA!    HA!   INDEED! 

IN  the  young  days  of  this  old  hall 

The  men  wore  buckles  and  garments  brighter, 
And  the  dames  head-dresses  somewhat  less  tall 

Than  their  colored  coachmen,  and  powdered  whiter. 

'Tis  said  that  here  to  this  same  old  hall 

The  county  gentry  their  way  once  wended, 

Some  few  dames  alone,  but  be  sure  that  all 
On  their  homeward  ride  were  well  attended. 

They  came  to  a  frolic,  a  dance  and  dinner, 
Where  wines  and  viands  were  equally  good, 

Followed  by  cards;  the  gains  of  the  winner 
Were  long  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood. 

At  the  music  made  by  the  slaves  of  Mount  Pleasant, 
Now  weird  and  wild,  now  soft  and  clear, 

The  pine-trees  hushed  their  moaning  incessant, 
And  the  waves  ran  silent  ashore  to  hear. 

Now,  among  the  rest  who  came  to  the  rout 

Were  the  colonel,  the  squire,  and   the  squire's 

pretty  daughter 
(One  could  see  the  old  miracle  turned  about 

In  the  squire's  weak  eyes,  where  wine  changed 
to  water). 

51 


52  Ha!  Ha!  and  Ha!  Ha!  Indeed! 

A  quarrel  arose  at  the  turn   of  a  card 

Between  the  two  men,  and  words  waxed  warmer 
(The  fainting  daughter  came  to  in  the  yard 

Ere  aught  occurred  to  really  alarm  her). 

Said  the  doughty  squire,  and  his  speech  was  broken 
With  laughter,  "Ha!  ha! — A  good  jest  this." 

"Ha!  ha!  Indeed!"  was  the  answer  spoken, 
And  a  sword-blade  rattled  the  emphasis. 

At  once  at  the  tone  and  sneer  and  gesture, 

Since  if  blood  were  spilled  t' would  soil  the  floors, 

The  squire  suggested  they  doff  their  vesture, 
And  settle  the  quarrel  alone,  out  of  doors. 

Just  as  the  night-winds  fanned  the  flame 
Of  day  on  the  bay-sands,  'till  it  faded, 

Whence  a  star  like  a  fawn  from  its  cover  came, 
Through  the  dew  on  the  grass  the  two  men  waded- 

Away  from  the  hall  and  towards  the  hill 

To  the  field  where  the  pines  are  waving  yonder ; 

Some  guests  grew  sober,  and  all  were  still 

In  the  house  as  the  moments  passed  in  wonder, 

While  they  heard  the  tones  of  scornful  laughter 
Faint  and  far  over  the  fields  recede, — 

"Ha!  ha!  Ha!  ha!"  and  quickly  came  after 
The  sneering  answer,  "Ha!  ha!  Indeed!" 


Ha!  Ha!  and  Ha!  Ha!  Indeed!  53 

Thus  the  pair  passed  out  of  sight  forever. 

Mysterious !    Yes.     They  tottered,  some  say, 
Over  the  bank  in  the  bend  of  Bush  River. 

However  that  is,  to  this  very  day 

Are  heard  in  the  fields  on  the  hill  each  night, 
Above  the  soughing  of  pine-trees  mournful, 

A  laugh,  "  Ha !  ha  !"  that  is  merry  and  bright, 
And   a   "Ha!    ha!    Indeed!"    that  is   sad   and 
scornful. 

"  Ha!  ha!"  laughs  loudest  and  longest,  but  wait 
Till  the  mirth  is  dead  and  the  laughter  over, 

"Ha!  ha!  Indeed!"  either  soon  or  late, 
Always  laughs  last,  as  you  will  discover. 


IN  WINTER  QUARTERS. 


55 


IN   WINTER    QUARTERS. 

GRANDCHILDREN,  you  must  not  forget 
That  the  Marquis  de  La  Fayette 
Beneath  this  roof  once  slept  and  ate, 
Yes,  and  often  at  table  the  Aide 
Of  the  Marquis  smiled  on  the  pretty  maid 
Who  filled  their  glasses.     From  the  gate 
They  shook  the  snow  each  morning  gray, 
And  towards  the  camp  they  rode  away, 
And,  when  the  evening  drill  was  done, 
Dismounted  here  at  set  of  sun. 

One  morn  the  Marquis  rode,  but  the  Aide — 
"J'ai  mal"  or  something  like  that  he  said. 
He  took  French  leave ;  at  home  he  stayed, 
And  fretted,  and  fumed,  and  hindered  the  maid, 
At  eve  the  Marquis,  as  often  before, 
Climbed  the  high  stairway,  opened  the  door, 
And  silently  looked  across  the  room  : 
Somewhere  he  heard,  from  the  twilight  gloom, 
A  scream,  and  saw  the  impudent  Aide 
Seize  and  kiss  his  serving  maid. 

Nothing  the  Marquis  said  to  the  Aide ; 
Nothing  he  said  to  the  struggling  maid ; 

57 


58  In   Winter  Quarters. 

But  down  the  steep  stairs,  out  into  the  snow, — 
I  laugh,  hut,  ah,  it  was  long  ago, — 
Down  these  same  steps,  o'er  yonder  path, 
He  hooted  the  Aide  in  his  sudden  wrath. — 
Then  all  at  once  four  voices  said, 
"  Why,  grandma,  you  were  the  pretty  maid  ! 
But  what  of  the  Aide  ?" — With  never  a  glance 
Turned  backward,  straight  he  sailed  to  France. 


THE  BURYING-GROUND. 


THE    BURYING-GROUND. 

(Axe's  Graveyard,  Germantown.) 

HERE  is  the  burying-ground,  hid  from  the  street, 

Hemmed  in,  its  entrance  barred,  its  exit  known 

Unto  the  dead,  and  unto  them  alone. 
~No  mourners  tread  these  aisles  with  reverent  feet, 
For  all  have  gone  where  mourned  and  mourners 
greet. 

Its  last  forget-me-not  forgot,  o'ergrown. 

Over  the  latest  grave  low  leans  the  stone. 
These  records,  like  a  book,  are  closed — complete. 

A  simple,  peaceful  folk,  nor  ties  love  wrought 

At  home,  nor  terrors  of  the  sea  could  keep 

Them  back.    Their  rugged  names  have  never  been 

Upon  Fame's  scroll.    It  matters  not.     They  sought 

The  wilderness,  subdued  it,  and  they  sleep 
As  if  their  loved  Rhine  kept  the  grave-grass  green. 


01 


A  NOVEMBER  NOCTURNE. 


63 


A    NOVEMBER   NOCTURNE. 

Ho!     Charming!     The  wild  geese  that  thou  did'st 
hear 

At  morn  by  the  shore  of  the  Assabett 
An  hour  ago  (the  night  was  cold  and  clear ; 

The  wind  had  fall'n  ;  the  moon  had  not  yet  set) 
Gave  hail  here  by  the  Chesapeake.     We  sat 
At  whist — Pearl's  deal.     What  else  would  we  be  at 
Where  Time's  slow  windlass  draws  the  days  like 

links 

Of  anchor-chains  ?     Pearl  deals,  but  sees  not,  thinks 
Not  of  the  flight  of  cards  her  deft  hand  sends ; 
For  on  the  hearth  her  steady  gaze  she  bends, 

As  if  beyond  the  updrawn  veil  of  flame 
She  saw  green  meadows,  heard  the  blue-birds  sing 
In  orchards  white,  and  felt  the  airs  of  Spring 

Steal  softly  back  the  wayward  course  they  came. 

Once  round  the  house  a  wandering  wind  did  go 
In  search  of  nooks  to  hold  the  coming  snow ; 
Once  bayed  the  dog  to  prove  his  vigil  kept, 

But  when  the  moonlit  farm  gave  back  no  sound, 
He  shook  his  shaggy  sides,  barked  low,  and  slept. 

Within,  the  cards  clicked  on  the  table  round ; 
We  heard  the  clock's  pulse  rise,  and  pause,  and  fall 
Into  the  fathomless  deep  that  swallows  all ; 
And  silence  seemed,  with  her  mute  lips  apart, 
About  to  tell  the  secret  of  her  heart. 

5  65 


66  A  November  Nocturne. 

Hark!     Hear  the  challenge!     How  from  farm  to 

farm, 

Along  the  watch-dog's  cordon,  spreads  the  alarm; 
Now  leaps  the  wind  a-tree-top;   the  gaunt  limbs 

toss 

It  back,  and  baffled  now,  and  all  at  loss, 
It  goes  its  zigzag  way  across  the  clearing, 
Whistling  folk  up,  and  leaving  them  a-fearing. 

Then  stood  we  shivering  in  the  night-air  cold, 
And  heard  a  sound,  as  if  a  chariot  rolled 
Groaning  adown  the  heavens;  and  lo  !  o'erhead, 
Twice,  thrice  the  wild  geese  cried ;  then  on  they 

sped, 

O'er  Held  and  wood  and  bay,  towards  southern  seas ; 
So  low  they  flew  that  on  the  forest  trees 
Their  strong  wings  splashed  a  spray  of  moonlight 

white ; 

So  straight  they  flew,  so  fast  their  steady  flight, 
True  as  an  arrow  they  sailed  down  the  night; 
Like  lights  blown  out  they  vanished  from  the  sight. 

E'en  while  we  gazed,  and  listened,  field  and  shore 
And  nearer  folds  grew  quiet  as  before. 
Only  the  awakened  brook,  before  it  slept 
Again,  murmured  a  little ;  the  watch-dog  crept 

Back  to  his  kennel,  where  he  barked  no  more ; 
And  Pearl,  her  cherry  lips  all  changed  to  white, 
Pale,  passionless,  and  beautiful  as  night, 

On  the  lit  landscape  softly  closed  the  door. 


THE  FALLING  OF  THE  DEW. 


07 


THE   FALLING   OF   THE    DEW. 

THERE'S  a  wraith  that  chaseth  the  twilight  hour, — 
A  wraith,  as  the  foam  of  the  breakers  white, 

That  seeketh  the  lawn,  but  avoideth  the  bower, 
That  is  sacl,  and  her  tears  are  the  dews  of  the 


There  is  spray  on  her  hair,  and  her  feet  are  bare, 
Tho'  chill  is  the  East,  whence  she  taketh  her 

flight, 

Whence  the  sea  sent  her  forth,  and  its  woe  and  de- 
spair 
Are  changed  in  her  tears  to  the  dews  of  the  night. 

To  the  famished  fields  of  the  Lord  of  the  Day, 
By  night  she  bringeth  a  keen  delight; 

Athirst, — and  they  drink,  but  she  cannot  delay 
While  they  drink  of  her  tears  in  the  dews  of  the 
night. 

Ah !  cool  is  her  breath  as  the  forehead  of  Death, 
And  the  cheek  of  my  lady  turns  pale  and  white, 

As  unseen,  and  in  silence,  swift  passeth  the  wraith, 
And  sheddeth  her  tears  in  the  dews  of  the  night. 

69 


70  The  Falling  of  the  Dew. 

And  the  blithe  heart  is  sad,  tho'  it  cannot  tell  why, 
"When  the  hills,  through  the  casement,  grow  dim 

on  the  sight, 
In  the  hour  when  the  wraith  of  the  sea  draweth 

nigh, 

With  the  woe  of  the  sea  and  the  dews  of  the 
night. 

And  mortals  aweary  with  burdens  of  fears, 

And  sorrows  that  sink  on  the  heart  like  a  blight, 

Still  love  best  the  hour  when  the  day  disappears, 
And  the  dews  on  the  valley  fall  with  the  night. 


BECALMED. 


71 


BECALMED. 

BEFORE  the  blast,  that  sweeps  the  bay 

And  bluff,  the  pine-trees  sway; 

Hoar  harpers  they, 

Whose  harmonies  sweet 

Rise  with  the  waves  that  beat 

And  break  around  the  harpers'  feet. 

Cold  is  the  hearth  of  the  hostel  old ; 

The  heart  of  home  is  cold ; 

A-field,  in  fold, 

All  green  things  grow 

Uncropped,  and  long  ago 

The  wharf  slipped  in  the  slow  tide's  flow. 

In  their  low  beds  the  people  sleep, — 

Sleep  while  the  shadows  creep 

Down  caverns  deep. 

"  Wake  !     While  ye  lie 

In  dreams  the  sails  go  by ! 

Wake  !     Wake  !     'Tis  day ;  the  sun  is  high.1 

~No  call  can  now,  nor  sobs  could  make 

Who  sleep  in  death  awake, 

Or  their  dreams  break. 

The  sails  are  gone; 

Hope,  love  hope  builded  on, 

Swift  joy  and  pain — all,  all  are  done. 

73 


GOOD  TIMES. 


75 


GOOD   TIMES. 

ONCE  more  along  the  valley 

The  furnace-fires  gleam  bright, 
And  the  forgeman  comes  across  the  hills 

And  follows  the  beckoning  light ; 
Guided  by  columns  of  smoke  by  day, 

By  pillars  of  ^.re  at  night. 

Half-way  he  meets  the  shadows 

That  hide  the  valley  green, 
But  down  by  the  flow  of  the  river  below 

He  hears  the  welcome  din 
Of  labor  that  fills  with  joy  the  homes 

Where  care  so  long  has  been. 

Ho  !     Want  lies  down  a-dying, 
Ho  !     Let  the  old  wolf  die  ! 
Laughter  is  light  as  the  furnace-flame, 

O  O 

And  together  they  leap  to  the  sky 
On  a  way  so  yellow  and  red  and  white 
That  the  stars  all  fade  on  high. 

And  the  child  of  Thor  gives  thanks  to  the  Christ 
Who  hath  answered  his  prayer  for  bread, 

Who  hath  sent  new  zest  for  life  to  his  breast, 
And  hope  that  he  thought  lay  dead ; 


78  Good  Times. 

Eejoice  !  ISTow  Hunger  gives  up  the  chase, 
And  the  man  comes  in  ahead. 

How  light  shall  seem  the  labor 

For  wife  and  children  three, 
How  sweet  the  rest  when  day  is  done 

And  he  shares  his  children's  glee ! 
And  hail  to  the  morn  when  his  habe  shall  be  born  ! 

His  babe  will  welcome  be. 


AFTER  THE  PROPOSAL. 


79 


AFTER   THE   PROPOSAL. 

I  KNOW  a  little  street,  just  wide 

Enough  to  have  a  sunny  side ; 

Within  the  gardens  all  a-row 

The  vines  creep  'round  and  roses  grow. 

Come,  sweet,  and  see,  and  say  if  you 

Think  house  so  small  full  large  for  two. 

Tho'  small,  no  doubt  there's  room  in  it 

To  look  around  and  bide  a  bit — 

To  bide  a  bit  for  hope  to  grow. 

There  is  not  room  for  pride  or  show; 

There's  room  for  love  and  love's  increase ; 

There's  room  to  bar  out  strife  with  peace ; 

There's  room  to  give  and  take  and  share ; 

The  cares  to  come  there's  room  to  bear; 

But  none  for  envy,  none  to  care 

What  neighbors  do  or  what  they  wear. 

If  no  gay  teams  prance  past  our  door, 

We'll  inward  turn  our  thoughts  the  more ; 

If  each  serves  each,  Love's  retinue 

Will  make  the  service  light  and  true. 

All  space  and  life  will  crowded  be 

With  one  sweet  guest,  felicity ;  * 

j^nd  narrow  street  will  stretch  away 

To  hill-tops  whence  the  bright  dawns  stray. 

6  81 


THE  PINEY. 


83 


THE    PINEY. 

INTO  the  pines  and  out  of  the  pines 
Foot-deep  the  sand-road  flows ; 

Out  of  the  pines  and  into  the  pines 
The  woodman's  wagon  goes. 

His  sheet-how  top,  that  clears  his  head 

By  a  scant  inch  or  two, 
Shuts  out  the  morning  sun's  mild  rays, 

And  lets  the  fierce  noon's  through. 

Each  house  he  knows  along  the  way ; 

He  knows  the  back  way  in, 
And  in  mysterious  cellars  finds, 

And  fills  the  fuel-hin. 

He  knows  where  in  the  swamp's  recess 
The  crimson  cranberry  grows, 

And  where  above  those  cool,  still  pools 
The  blueberries  hang  he  knows. 

He  stays  not  on  the  bridge  to  see 

The  red  Rancocas  run, 
And  leaping  sweep  from  garden  walls 

The  ripened  rose  of  June; 

85 


86  The  Piney. 

Nor  follows  in  his  thought  the  stream, 
The  coves  and  village  past — 

Past  many  a  meadow  till  it  sinks 
In  vaster  deeps  at  last. 

Back  slowly  where  home  sunsets  burn 
The  woodman's  wagon  goes. 

The  current  of  his  habit  ebbs 
The  even  way  it  flows. 


NOTES. 


87 


NOTES. 


Page  13  :  "  Their  volleys  rang  the  first  and  last ; 

They  kept  with  Webb  the  target-wood." 

THE  battle  of  Gettysburg  was  opened  by  the  Fifty-sixth 
Pennsylvania  Infantry,  commanded  by  Colonel  (afterwards 
General)  John  William  Hofmann.  General  Cutler,  who  com- 
manded the  brigade,  wrote  to  the  Governor  of  Pennsylvania 
November  5,  1863,  as  follows:  "It  was  my  fortune  to  be  in 
advance  on  the  morning  of  July  1.  When  we  came  upon 
the  ground  in  front  of  the  enemy,  Colonel  Hofmann's  regiment 
(being  the  second  in  the  column)  got  into  position  a  moment 
sooner  than  the  others,  the  enemy  now  advancing  in  line  of 
battle  within  easy  musket-range.  The  atmosphere  being  a 
little  thick,  I  took  out  my  glass  to  examine  the  enemy,  being 
a  few  paces  in  rear  of  Colonel  Hofmann,  who  turned  to  me 
and  inquired,  'Is  that  the  enemy?'  My  reply  was  'Yes.'  Turn- 
ing to  his  men,  he  commanded,  *  Beady,  right-oblique,  aim, 
fire!'  and  the  battle  of  Gettysburg  was  opened."  The  last 
volley  from  Meade's  army  was  fired  by  the  advancing  Pennsyl- 
vania Reserves  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day.  "The 
Philadelphia  Brigade,"  commanded  in  this  battle  by  General 
Alexander  S.  Webb,  held  that  part  of  Meade's  line  imme- 
diately in  front  of  the  little  grove  of  trees,  which  was  pointed 
out  to  General  Pickett,  before  his  famous  charge  of  the  third 

89 


90  Notes. 

day  began,  as  the  spot  where  he  should  strike  the  Union  line. 
This  grove  is  popularly  known  as  the  "  high-water  mark  of 
the  rebellion." 


Page  19 :  "  Tacey  Richardson." 

The  heroine  of  the  adventure  described  in  this  poem  was 
the  daughter  of  Captain  Joseph  Richardson,  whose  remarka- 
ble exploits  are  told  in  a  sketch  included  in  a  volume  entitled 
"  Historical  and  Biographical  Sketches,"  by  Judge  Samuel  W. 
Pennypacker,  published  in  Philadelphia  in  1883.  Tacey 
Richardson  actually  did  what  the  poem  describes  her  as 
doing.  The  horses  "Sopus,"  "  Fearnaught,"  and  "Scipio" 
were  Arabian  horses,  which  belonged  to  her  father. 


Page  29 :  "At  the  Sign  of  the  Red  Rose." 

The  Moravian  chronicles  contain  a  brief  reference  to  the 
spectre  horseman  who  was  supposed  to  haunt  the  locality  of 
the  Red  Rose  Inn. 


Page  35 :  "  The  Old  Church  at  the  Trappe." 

Previous  to  and  during  the  Revolutionary  War  the  pastor 
of  this  church  was  the  Rev.  Henry  Melchior  Muhlenberg, 
the  founder  of  the  Lutheran  Church  in  America.  He  was 
perfectly  familiar  with  the  Greek,  Hebrew,  and  Latin,  and  is 
said  to  have  used  in  speaking  and  writing  all  the  modern 
languages  of  the  continent  of  Europe.  He  played  with  skill 


Notes.  91 

on  the  organ,  harp,  guitar,  and  violin,  and  possessed  a  pleas- 
ing voice  and  sang  in  a  way  that  gave  his  hearers  much  en- 
joyment. He  kept  a  diary  in  which  he  noted  his  dismay  at 
witnessing  the  scene  described  in  the  fifth  stanza  of  the  poem. 
The  line  from  the  Latin  under  the  title  of  the  poem,  and 
paraphrased  in  the  last  stanza,  is  carved  upon  his  tombstone. 
He  and  his  three  sons  are  buried  by  the  church-wall.  One 
of  these  sons  was  Major-General  Peter  Muhlenberg. 


Page  36  :  "  the  warrior  who,  robed  as  a  colonel. 

Led  his  men  to  the  fight  from  the  prayer." 
Lossing,  in  his  sketch  of  General  Muhlenberg,  and  T. 
Buchanan  Read,  in  his  poem,  "The  Wagoner  of  the  Alle- 
ghanies,"  narrate  his  dramatic  closing  of  a  sermon  in  his 
Virginia  church  by  saying,  "There  is  a  time  for  all  things — 
a  time  to  fight  and  a  time  to  pray,  but  those  times  have  passed 
away.  There  is  a  time  to  fight,  and  that  time  has  now 
come."  Then  laying  aside  his  robe,  he  stood  before  his  flock 
in  the  full  regimental  dress  of  a  Virginia  colonel.  He  ordered 
the  drums  to  be  beaten  at  the  church-door  for  recruits,  and 
almost  all  of  his  male  audience  capable  of  bearing  arms  en- 
listed. His  brother,  Frederick  Augustus  Muhlenberg,  was  the 
first  President  of  Congress  under  the  Constitution,  and  after- 
wards United  States  Senator  from  Pennsylvania.  Another 
brother  was  the  Rev.  Henry  Ernst  Muhlenberg,  D.D.,  one 
of  the  most  widely  known  of  early  American  botanists.  His 
"  Flora  of  Lancaster  County"  was  published  in  1785.  Among 
his  other  botanical  works  was  a  catalogue  of  native  and 
naturalized  plants  of  North  America,  arranged  according  to 
the  sexual  system  of  Linnaeus. 


92  Notes. 

Page  36  :  "  And  Gottlieb,  colonial  musician" 

This  was  Gottlieb  Mittleberger,  music-master,  organist  at 
the  Trappe  church,  and  author  of  "  A  Journey  to  Pennsyl- 
vania in  the  year  1750,"  etc.  He  brought  the  first  organ  to 
America. 


Page  41 :  "The  Perkiomen." 

For  several  weeks  previous  and  subsequent  to  the  battle 
of  Germantown,  Washington's  army  was  encamped  upon  the 
Perkiomen  Creek,  in  Montgomery  County,  Pennsylvania, 
General  Washington's  head-quarters  being  at  Pennybacker's 
Mills.  There  he  issued  the  congratulatory  order  announcing 
Burgoyne's  defeat.  Some  of  Washington's  officers,  wounded 
or  killed  in  the  battle  of  Germantown,  found  graves  in  the 
church-yards  of  the  peaceful  Mennonites,  or  Dunkards,  near 
the  Perkiomen,  who,  like  the  Quakers,  refused  to  bear  arms 
for  conscience'  sake.  Among  them  was  General  Nash,  of 
North  Carolina. 


Page  45 :  "  Leonard  Keyser." 

"In  1527  was  the  learned  and  good  Leonard  Keyser  taken 
and  condemned  to  be  burnt.  As  he  neared  the  fire,  bound  in 
a  cart,  he  brake  oft'  a  flower  that  grew  in  the  field,  and  said  to 
the  judges,  for  they  rode  along  with  him,  'If  ye  can  burn 
this  little  flower  and  me,  then  have  ye  judged  aright;  if  not, 
take  heed  and  repent.'  Thrice  the  great  fagots  were  heaped 
around  him  at  the  stake  and  kindled.  Nevertheless,  when 
they  had  burned  away,  his  body  was  found  unmarked,  save 


Notes.  93 

that  his  hair  was  singed  and  his  nails  were  a  little  brown. 
Likewise  the  little  flower  yet  lay  in  his  hand  unchanged. 
Thereupon  the  sheriffs  cut  his  body  into  pieces  and  cast  them 
into  the  Inn.  But  a  judge  was  so  moved  thereat  that  he 
yielded  up  his  office,  and  one  of  the  sheriffs  became  a  Men- 
nonite  brother  and  ever  thereafter  lived  a  pious  life." —  Van 
Braght. 


Page  51:  "Ha!  ha!  and  Ha!  ha!  Indeed!" 

Captain  John  Hall  removed  from  St.  Mary's  County,  Mary- 
land, and  in  1694  bought  fifteen  hundred  and  thirty-nine 
acres  of  land  on  the  Bush  River,  in  the  northern  part  of 
Baltimore  county.  He  called  his  new  home  Cranberry  Hall. 
William  White  Wiltbank,  Esq.,  in  a  paper  read  at  a  meeting 
in  1877  of  the  descendants  of  Colonel  Thomas  White,  who 
was  the  father  of  Bishop  White,  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church,  records  of  Cranberry  Hall  this  tradition,  which  af- 
fords the  somewhat  slight  foundation  for  the  poem  : 

"  His  children,  while  they  trembled,  yearned  to  hear,  and 
devoutly  believed,  ghost  stories ;  and  his  fields  were  the  scenes 
of  wild  midnight  mysteries,  that  gave  names  to  their  open 
stage.  .  .  .  There  is  an  entertaining  instance  of  this  in  the 
traditions  of  a  tract  till  recently  in  the  family,  of  which  one 
enclosure  was  called  'Ha!  ha!'  and  another,  'Ha!  ha!  In- 
deed !'  The  restless  spectre  that  ruled  the  former  in  the  deep 
of  night  announced  his  presence  and  his  humor  in  a  wild 
'  Ha,  ha !'  to  whom  the  unknowable  soul  in  the  other  field, 
whether  in  the  sympathy  of  jollity  or  in  the  malevolence  of 
mockery  and  triumph  cannot  be  said,  laughed  back,  in  star- 
tling notes,  '  Ha  !  ha  !  Indeed!' " 


94  Notes. 

Page  57  :  "  In  Winter  Quarters." 

"Soon  after  the  battle  of  Brandy  wine,  La  Fayette,  who  had 
been  wounded,  was  conveyed  to  the  house  of  Dr.  Stephens,  a 
short  distance  from  Valley  Forge.  The  office  of  the  Doctor, 
in  the  second  story  of  the  building,  with  a  flight  of  steps 
leading  down  into  the  kitchen,  was  under  the  charge  of  his 
daughter,  a  young  girl,  afterwards  Mistress  Elizabeth  Rossiter. 
One  morning,  while  she  was  engaged  in  cleaning  the  room, 
La  Fayette  entered,  followed  by  a  young  aide-de-camp.  The 
aide,  with  French  impulse,  seized  the  girl  and  kissed  her. 
La  Fayette  turned  quickly  about,  and  unceremoniously  kicked 
the  young  gentleman  down  the  steps  and  out  of  the  house, 
telling  him  at  the  same  time  that  such  conduct  was  not  per- 
missible."— Annals  of  Phcenixville  and  Vicinity,  page  111. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAY  13   1946 


REC'D  LD 


LD  21-100m-12,'43  (8796s) 


4-Ui 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


